


Gladly

by mille_libri



Series: At Your Side [5]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-24
Updated: 2015-11-24
Packaged: 2018-05-03 05:31:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 18,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5278562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mille_libri/pseuds/mille_libri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Short vignettes in the life of Fenris and Evelyn Hawke. Companion piece to "At Your Side".</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Baby on Board

Evelyn sat still at the edge of her seat, listening anxiously to the little humming sounds Bethany was making. The mage's hands passed back and forth over her sister's abdomen very slowly until Evelyn thought she would have to scream if it took any longer. But Bethany did not appreciate being rushed in a diagnosis, and the ship's company of the Temptress had learned to wait until the mage was sure of her findings.

They'd been pirates for almost a year now, since Evelyn and Fenris and Isabela had aided Bethany's escape from the Gallows. Bethany was thriving in the sun and the sea air and the freedom. The crew was glad enough to have a healer aboard that any superstitions about carrying a mage had been set aside, and Bethany and Isabela seemed remarkably happy together for two such different personalities. Evelyn loved to see her sister so carefree, finally coming into her own.

Shipboard life wasn't suiting Evelyn as well. She missed her privacy. On the ship, she and Fenris had their own cabin, but it was small, and you could hear everything that went on in all the other cabins. There wasn't enough room to practice their swordsmanship, and Evelyn could feel her skills atrophying, despite the extra work they put in every time the ship docked. She and Fenris had discussed returning to Kirkwall, but neither of them missed the pressure of Evelyn being the Champion, and Varric reported that the Divine was sending her Seekers around to look for Evelyn, having somehow gotten the wrong idea about Evelyn's involvement in the destruction of the Kirkwall Chantry. Wherever they did end up, they were going to have to be circumspect about it.

Bethany cleared her throat, and Evelyn brought her thoughts back to the moment, looking anxiously up at her sister. Bethany was smiling, and Evelyn's heart pounded.

"Congratulations, sister! You're going to have a baby."  
\----- ----- ----- ----- ----- -----   
Hours later, Evelyn paused outside the door to their cabin. Fenris had finished up his shift on watch—an activity he seemed to enjoy, climbing high into the rigging and looking out over the expanse of the ocean—and was probably asleep. She'd waited all day, wanting to share this news with him alone in their cabin, with the whole night before them, but now she was nervous. They had decided a long time ago to let Fate decide whether they were to become parents or not and had never discussed the topic again. There had been no reason to; Evelyn's cycles came around like clockwork, never late by so much as a day, and she had begun to assume she and Fenris simply weren't compatible. Or that Fenris was right and the lyrium had affected his ability to father children. Evelyn's impatience had been growing all this time, however. There was no longer any question in her mind that she wanted a child; Fenris's child. She could already imagine a little boy with his father's eyes. But she didn't know if Fenris was as anxious as she was, or if he'd be truly excited by the news. In the back of her mind there was always the concern that the child could inherit magic—if not from her side, then from Fenris's. Her husband had learned to live with Bethany, and even appeared to like the mage, but how would he accept a mage child? Would he insist on locking the child in a Circle somewhere?

Putting her hands over her stomach, still as flat as ever, Evelyn bit her lip against a wave of nausea, but whether it came from the movement of the ship, the new pregnancy, or nerves, she couldn't tell.

"Hawke, are you going to stand out there all night?"

She had forgotten about his hearing, and what a light sleeper he was. Well, there was nothing for it now. If he wasn't going to be happy, she might as well know it now as stand here wondering about it. Turning the knob, Evelyn went into the tiny cabin. Fenris was on his side, his head propped on his elbow.

"I wondered what was keeping you. Are you still not feeling well?"

This whole thing had started because she was having trouble keeping her meals down and her intermittent seasickness had come back full force. It had taken nearly a week of this before Evelyn had begun to consider the possibility of pregnancy, and she had no idea if the thought had crossed Fenris's mind at all.

"No, I'm feeling better. I …" But she didn't know how to say it. Her mind painted a picture of Fenris upset at the news, and to her horror, tears began to well up in her eyes.

Fenris was immediately on his feet, his arms wrapping around her. "Whatever the trouble is, we will get through it together." Evelyn could feel the tension in his body and in the strong, protective tightening of his arms. Was he afraid she was pregnant? "Is this about what Bethany said this morning?"

"How do you know I saw Bethany?"

"It is a very small ship. Also, she spent the day watching you anxiously. Obviously she is concerned about your well-being."

Evelyn felt the warmth of his hand stroking her cheek and she looked into his eyes.

"My heart, you must tell me," Fenris whispered.

She felt foolish for her reaction. Since the death of Danarius, there was nothing they hadn't been able to talk about; she trusted Fenris with her heart and with her life—surely she could trust him with this news, as well. Shaking her head, she smiled. "It's nothing bad. Really. Why don't you sit down?"

"Very well." He backed up and sat on the edge of the bunk, looking up at her expectantly. Evelyn could see the concern in his eyes, but something prevented her from just blurting out the news.

"I … um, was worried, because of the seasickness and how tired I've been."

"As was I."

"So I asked Bethany to take a look at me, and it turns out … well, it seems …" She looked at him hesitantly. "Fenris?"

"Yes?"

"We're going to have a baby."

His eyes widened at the words, the lyrium along his skin flaring briefly and then subsiding. Was that anger, excitement, or something else?

"Bethany is certain?"

Evelyn nodded, her heart fluttering in her chest. She felt the nausea again, churning in the pit of her stomach, and fought against it. "Say something."

Fenris still sat on the edge of the bunk. "I … am sorry. I am a little startled. I should have expected this, or counted it among the possibilities, but I had not … I was worried about you."

"And now? You aren't upset, are you?"

"Upset?" He stood up, framing her face with his gentle hands. "The farthest thing from it. I am extremely pleased—what would have made you think otherwise?"

"We haven't talked about it, not in a long time, and when month after month went by with nothing …" Evelyn shrugged. "I thought you were glad it wasn't happening."

"On the contrary, I avoided the topic because I thought it might be a sensitive one for you." Now it was his turn to look away, his cheeks flushing. "Also, I was afraid that I was the reason it was not working. I did not know how to approach that subject."

"And here I thought we talked to each other so well." Relief filled her, warming her from the inside out.

"Apparently we have further improvements to make in that area."

Evelyn put her arms around him, leaning her head against his shoulder. "I still can hardly believe it."

"Nor can I," he whispered against her hair. His mouth sought hers, the kiss tender and sweet. Evelyn could feel her heartrate quicken as their tongues touched. Fenris broke the kiss, making a small, appreciative sound in the back of his throat. "I may need to inspect more closely in order to be fully convinced." His strong hands moved to the front of her shirt, slowly unbuttoning it and then pushing the fabric down off her shoulders. He began kissing the curve of her neck. Joy and arousal spread through Evelyn in a giant wave, and she clung to Fenris's arms to hold herself up. He walked her back until they were standing next to the bunk. His dexterous fingers unfastened her breeches, shoving them down over her thighs, and her smallclothes with them. She stepped out of the clothing, leaving it in a heap on the floor, and sat down on the edge of the bunk. Fenris knelt between her legs, reaching up to kiss her. He unfastened her hair, letting it fall around her shoulders, and unclasped her breastband, tossing it over his shoulder.

He pulled back, his hands softly caressing Evelyn's breasts, which tingled under his touch, sensitive as they had never been before. She gasped at the feeling, arching against his touch. "Well, that is certainly new," he murmured. "And most delightful." He closed his mouth over one aching peak, suckling at it, and Evelyn bit her lip to keep from crying out. He entertained himself, and her, by coaxing new sensations from her breasts until at last she had to push his hands away.

"Too much," she whispered hoarsely.

"Mm. I believe I am going to enjoy your pregnancy."

Evelyn opened her eyes, smiling down at him. "Let's see if you say that when my stomach is so big there's no room for you in the bunk."

The corner of his mouth quirked up. "I will find you beautiful and exciting even when this," he kissed her stomach, his thumbs caressing her skin, "is rounded and full of life."

It sounded a lot more beautiful the way he said it. Fenris pushed her knees farther apart, stroking her stomach and pressing lightly against the taut muscles.

"It feels no different."

"It's early yet," Evelyn said. "Give it time."

"Hello, little one," Fenris murmured, his lips brushing her stomach. "You are to grow quickly—we are anxious to meet you."

Evelyn felt tears welling up in her eyes. To think she had doubted him.

And then he dipped his head further, making an appreciative sound in the back of his throat as his tongue touched the swollen folds between her legs. Evelyn moaned, laying back on the bunk and spreading her legs wider to give him better access. He took his time, his tongue stroking and caressing and delving inside her, and Evelyn clutched the blankets in an effort to remain still under his ministrations. She could feel the muscles inside clenching and she could stand it no longer.

"Please, Fenris."

His anxious face came into view. "You are certain it will not harm the child?"

She loved him for his concern, but it was poorly timed. "It won't. I promise. Clothes off!"

"As you desire."

Evelyn watched as he undressed, holding her arms out to him. Carefully he held himself above her on trembling arms in order to avoid resting his weight on her abdomen. Evelyn drew up her knees, tugging at him, needing him. "Fenris, it's all right. You can relax. The baby will be fine!"

He groaned at her touch, his hips thrusting forward reflexively, the very tip of his erection sliding inside her. Evelyn tilted her hips up to capture more of him, clenching the muscles within. With a gasp, he gave himself up to her, thrusting until he was fully seated and then withdrawing. They moved together urgently, finding a rhythm that built the tension within them both until it snapped.

Languidly, Fenris stretched alongside her, his hand splaying across her stomach. Evelyn brushed the hair back from his damp forehead. "I'm sorry I doubted your reaction," she said.

"As am I. I would have liked to have been with you when Bethany gave you the good news." Fenris nuzzled her neck. "Should you have any further concerns, let me put them to rest. I was content before, fully satisfied. Now …" he swallowed, the words difficult to get out. "Now, for the first time in my memory, I am happy."


	2. Night Terrors

Fenris was awakened by the restless movements of the woman next to him. He needed both hands now to count the blissful nights he had spent sleeping at her side, but even at that he had yet to become accustomed to there being another person in the room as he slept. The smallest out-of-place sound served to startle him out of even a deep sleep.

Evelyn tossed restlessly, murmuring under her breath, and then she sat up abruptly, crying out. "No! Mother—"

The heartbroken voice brought a lump to Fenris's throat. He reached for her, stroking her arm. "Evelyn. Evelyn, wake up. It's a dream, nothing more."

"Mother!" Her voice cracked on the word, a tear trembling on the corner of her lashes. And then she blinked, impatiently shaking her head to clear the tear away. She turned to look at him in the dim room. "Fenris?" 

"I am here."

"Oh, Fenris." Evelyn turned, her arms sliding around him as her head pressed into his shoulder. She was trembling in his arms, and he held her close, stroking the glossy brown hair that spilled over her shoulders, glad he could be here for her.

"Do you have these dreams often?" he asked once the tremors that shook her had ceased.

Evelyn cleared her throat, pulling back from him. "Occasionally."

He knew what that meant. Years of watching her, listening to her, studying her, told him that she would not admit to that much unless these incidents were frequent. Fenris swallowed, guilt taking him. It had been three years since her mother was killed—how many nights had she awakened scared and tormented and alone?

"I'm fine, Fenris," she said when he didn't speak. She pushed the covers off, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. "I'll just get up for a little while, practice my forms. You go back to sleep."

"Stop."

She did so, turning to look at him over her shoulder. "What is it? I'm sorry, can't you sleep, either, now? I didn't mean to disturb you."

He got up, as well, moving toward her side of the bed. "That is not what I meant. You have nothing to apologize for."

"Then ... what?" Her head tilted to the side and she looked confused. "Oh, Maker, Fenris, did I hit you while I was thrashing around?" She reached up to touch his cheek as he came toward her, probing gently for injuries.

"Hawke! You did not disturb me, and you did not hit me." He took her hand in his, holding the callused fingers against his lips. "I had no idea ... I was so lost in my own—" He paused, taking a deep breath to steady himself and get the words straight in his head. "I should have been here."

She shook her head. "I still don't understand. You are here."

"But—" It would be easier not to say this; easier to let her go, let her wear herself out and return to sleep, and he would not have to admit to his tremendous guilt. But he had sworn, to her and to himself, that he would no longer run from the difficult moments between them. Fenris steeled himself against his own cowardice and continued. "I was not here when you needed me."

"Oh. But, Fenris, you were! You came to me the night my—that night. I really don't know how I would have made it through without you." Her hands cupped his face and she kissed him softly.

Fenris shook his head. "It is not that night to which I refer, but the others. All the other nights when you awoke from nightmares and I was not here to comfort you. In my selfishness and my cowardice, I did not consider that I was leaving you alone. I told myself it was better for you that way." He cleared his throat against the constriction there. "I am so very sorry."

Evelyn was staring at him, her mouth fallen open in surprise. Then she nodded. "You ought to be. Although ..." An impish smile brightened her face, and her blue eyes were bright with humor. "Cursing your infernal, Maker-damned stubbornness did while away the small hours of quite a few sleepless nights."

He couldn't help the answering smile that tugged at the corner of his mouth. "I must confess, I spent quite a few nights cursing my stubbornness as well."

"Well, as long as we're agreed." Evelyn's arms slid around his waist, pulling him against her. "I did need you, Fenris. Not just in the middle of the night, but in the mornings when I woke up to a silent house, and every time I couldn't help walking by that horrid foundry on the way home from the Hanged Man—"

"I was there." He remembered hovering behind her all those times, watching her nearly break and then pull herself back together, sick in the knowledge that he was not what she deserved.

"I know." There was a long pause before she said, almost under her breath, "That made it worse. That you were so close, that you obviously cared enough to be there, but you wouldn't speak." She pulled back far enough to look into his eyes. "But that was then. You're here now, and that's all that matters."

"I should attempt to make it up to you, to atone for my mistakes."

"You can't." The words hung stark between them. "You can't go back and change what happened or give us back all the years that we wasted not being together. But we don't have to poison today with yesterday's guilt."

"That is not so easy as you might think."

"Do you want to waste more of our lives, feeling guilty about things that have already happened?" Evelyn sighed. "I don't. I want to be glad that time is over, and enjoy being together now."

"You are incredibly generous."

"No, I'm not. I want what I want, and I don't like to let regret get in the way of that. If it had, I would never have accomplished anything in Ferelden, never learned to be a good swordswoman or joined the army or gotten my family out of Lothering. I'd have stood around and wrung my hands and wished for the good old days, like my mother did, and we'd have been killed by the darkspawn. I learned several moves in to take what came next and let go of what had been left behind."

"Not entirely," he pointed out, gesturing toward the bed, the covers on her side twisted from her thrashings.

Evelyn shook her head. "Not entirely, no. I can't let go of all my past; but I do the best I can."

"How can you deny your memories that way?" he asked, thinking of the brief tiny snippets of his own memories that he had spent so many hours chasing.

"I don't deny them. I just don't allow them to have power over me, not the way you do." He began to protest, but Evelyn cut him off. "You have let the loss of your memories control your life, made decisions because of it, isolated yourself from creating further memories just to avoid losing any more than you already have. That is worthy of regret, if anything is ... but only if it makes you look forward to our future rather than focus all your energies on our past."

"You truly forgive me for everything I have put you through?" Fenris threaded his hands into her hair, looking into her eyes, searching for any hint of anger or disappointment, and found none.

"I do." A wicked gleam came into those blue eyes, and she smiled. "However, if you feel motivated to perform a penance ..." She pressed against him, and Fenris could feel every soft curve of her through the thin nightrail she wore. "I have some ideas."

"Hmm. A truly penitent man might be expected to perform several acts of contrition," he agreed, nuzzling her neck.

"I thought you might see it that way." And, capturing one of his hands in hers, she led him back to their bed.


	3. Shelter

Sheets of rain pounded against the windows and wind howled viciously down the narrow alleyways of Hightown. Fenris always found great amusement in the irony that the rich and exclusive Hightown suffered far more in any large storm than did the squalid little huts of Lowtown. Tucked into the pocket formed by the mountains and the harbor, Lowtown tended to flood, but even that was rare. The high cliff walls protected the harbor from seaborne storms.

But up in Hightown it was a different story. The mansions were at the mercy of the winds and the rain. The inhabitants tended to celebrate the storms, because what else could they do? They held storm parties, congregating together to drown out the sound of the storm with music and gossip, leaving their servants to clean up the mess left behind.

Fenris didn't have servants, nor did he attend the parties, since technically he was not a resident of Hightown. Hawke didn't, either, he knew. With her mother gone, she had withdrawn herself as much as possible from the social whirl of Kirkwall, keeping to herself unless there was work to do.

More wind shook the windowpanes, and Fenris shivered. He didn't like storms; never had, at least, as far back as his memories went. He didn't much want to sit here alone in the dim light of his last few candles.

He supposed he could go to the Hanged Man. Varric and Isabela would be throwing their own version of the nobles' storm party—the cheap booze would be flowing, Isabela entertaining the crowd with tales of storms at sea, Varric with stories of Kirkwall's past bouts of bad weather. The witch would no doubt be there, hanging on every word and interjecting occasional comments about Ferelden's weather, and the abomination would come up from the depths of Darktown, which often flooded with backed-up sewage in rainstorms. He would sit in the midst of the tavern hunched over a glass of water, and mutter about the mages and their precious freedom. Fenris appreciated freedom, no one more so, but he also appreciated the need to keep power harnessed, to keep it from overcoming the powerless. And mages were power in its rawest form.

Something banged against the wall, and he wondered which servant would be lashed tomorrow for having let some noble's belongings blow away. That led to dark thoughts of Danarius and punishments past.  
After several minutes of that, Fenris shook himself out of the past. Danarius had no power over him here. He pulled himself out of the depths of his armchair, pacing the room restlessly. Aveline would be out tonight, patrolling with her guards. She led by example, taking all the worst weather and hardest posts herself on a regular basis. Fenris admired her for it, and would have considered joining her, but she would not have appreciated his assistance. Sebastian, no doubt, was kneeling in the chant with the mothers and the other residents of the Chantry. Fenris would be welcomed there, at least by Sebastian, but he had no desire for the Maker tonight. What, after all, had the Maker ever done for him?

He was left, Fenris thought, with only two choices. Remain here in the dim light and wallow in his memories, both good and bad, or ... walk the steps to lower Hightown, the comparatively safer, warmer part where Hawke lived, and brave her tempting presence.

Had there, truly, ever been another option? He shut the door of the mansion carefully behind him—no one would be watching, tonight—and ducked his head against the rain and wind. 

The walk across Hightown, and down the short flight of stairs that was slick with puddles and fallen leaves, seemed longer than it had any right to be, and he was miserable and shivering by the time he stood in front of her door. He knocked, fighting the impulse to turn and go back to his mansion, and stared down at Bodahn when the dwarf opened the door. Water was dripping from Fenris's nose by now, and running from his wet hair into the back of his armor.

"Messere Fenris! Terrible night to be out—must be important, eh? Do come in; Mistress Hawke is in her study. No doubt she'll be glad to see you."

Fenris followed, letting the dwarf's cheerful commentary roll past him all but unheard. Bodahn never gave the impression that he knew what had happened between Hawke and Fenris, here in this very house, but Fenris assumed he must. He would never forget the eyes of Bodahn's son, Sandal, burning with disappointment, as Fenris let himself out that early morning; Sandal must have told his father what occurred. He supposed he should feel grateful to Bodahn for pretending that nothing had changed, but it made Fenris more self-conscious than outright hostility would have. He deserved the hostility, after all. He did not deserve to be treated as a welcomed guest. Not any longer.

"Mistress, you have a visitor," Bodahn announced, throwing open the door to the study.

Hawke was sitting by the fire, a book open on her lap. She was wearing her house clothes, and the short skirt had pulled up to expose her bare knees and a long stretch of beautifully toned thighs. Fenris swallowed hard, unable to tear his eyes away from the sight. He remembered so clearly the silky-soft feel of that flesh, the taste of it as he kissed the inside of her knee.

What would she do if he pushed Bodahn out of the way, knelt before her, and began kissing her bare skin? If he begged her to forgive him and to allow him to earn his way back to where they had been before he was such a colossal fool?

"Fenris? What are you—You're soaking wet!" Hawke had risen now, looking at him with concern, and he realized that he was still staring at her legs.

"I ..." What could he say? That he was cold and afraid and didn't want to sit alone in the dark? What would she think of him then? "It appears to be raining rather heavily."

Hawke's blue eyes crinkled with amusement at the understatement. "First things first, then, we need to get you dried off." She looked him over briefly, her gaze businesslike and appraising. Still, Fenris couldn't help but remember her looking at him in quite another way, once. Hawke turned to Bodahn. "I don't believe we have any dry clothes Messere Fenris would thank us for lending him, so let's just get him a towel and a warm place to dry off in, then bring him back in here with some ... cocoa, I think."

Fenris appreciated her forethought—certainly the only clothes she'd have were her own, and although he was certain she had perfectly serviceable items she could have lent him, neither of them wanted to see that. He'd thought she might have ordered mulled wine—almost certainly she would have done so had Varric been her soaked and bedraggled visitor—but he supposed it was a good idea for both of them to keep their wits sharp. The lulling qualities of a fine wine would lower the resistance to temptation entirely too much.

He followed Bodahn into the kitchen, where the dwarf handed him a big, fluffy, warm towel and showed him a small pantry where Fenris could close the door and have some privacy. So the dwarf did know what had happened—and knew that Hawke would not want Fenris upstairs.

Fenris dried himself off quickly, and took rather more pains when drying the inside of his upper armor. He knew from experience that once it dried that way, it would take a long time to be comfortable again.  
All the time he cared for his armor, he berated himself for coming out in the storm in the first place. Now he was here, and he was stuck here, for Hawke would never let him back out in the storm, not unless he was bent on offending her. And he would have to spend the evening with her, somehow distracting himself from her beautiful legs and her lovely voice and her intoxicating scent and her tempting, taunting nearness.

"Venhedis!" he whispered, softly but fervently. What a prize fool he was.

At last he couldn't pretend to be drying off any longer, and he emerged from the pantry. Bodahn was waiting, his eyes expressionless as he held his hand out for the towel.

"Mistress Hawke is awaiting you in the study."

"Thank you, Bodahn."

Orana, the ex-slave Hawke employed, bent over a bubbling pot of something on the stove, pointedly not looking at him as he came through the room. Which was all well and good for Fenris, because he had never understood why someone would take a position as a domestic servant, even as well-paid as one of Hawke's, after having escaped from slavery. On the rare occasions he and Orana spoke, he was hard put not to lecture her on her folly.

He came back into the study, finding a small table had been pulled up between Hawke's two big armchairs, with a silver coffee pot and two thick china mugs on it, as well as a lovingly polished board with a number of holes in it, arranged in an oval pattern.

Hawke's legs were covered with a blanket now, despite the room's toasty warmth. He appreciated the gesture, although he wondered whose convenience the blanket was there for, his or hers. "There you are," she said. "I was waiting to pour the hot chocolate until you came back, but it was hard to do—it smells delicious."

"I am surprised Orana knows how to make it. Hot beverages are not exactly common in Tevinter."

"My ... My mother taught her a great deal, and Orana's a quick and willing learner." Hawke glanced at the fireplace, her features drooping for a moment. Then she brightened. "Do you play cribbage?"

"Cribbage?" He shook his head. No doubt that was what the board was for. "I have never heard of it."

"Oh. Would you like to learn?"

He couldn't help it; he bristled. As if having her teach him to read and to write wasn't enough? Must she humiliate him by continuing to point out all the ways in which she was accomplished and he a novice?

Quickly as he tried to catch his reaction and soften it, Hawke had seen it. "Apparently not, then," she said crisply, her tone hovering between annoyed and disappointed.

She reached for the pot, pouring steaming rich chocolate into both cups, then sat back with her own cradled in her hands. They sat in silence for a few long moments, but it wasn't the comfortable kind of silence they had shared so often. The air between them seemed to crackle with tension, words unsaid. Fenris thought they had gotten past the need to speak of what had been between them, but the night and the fire and the suggestion of the storm outside all combined to make the memories rise up in front of him. The things they could be doing right now, if he had not been such a tremendous fool. He shifted in the chair, moving as far back into the soft cushions as he could to mask his body's reaction to his thoughts.

"Fenris."

"Yes?"

"What are you doing here?" Hawke sounded tired.

“I … am not certain. The wind—“ He broke off, unwilling to admit that he had been unnerved by the storm.

Hawke looked up, pointing her face in the direction of the outer rooms, listening. “I can’t even hear it.”

“Nor I.” But he wasn’t looking toward the windows; he was looking at her. “I should go.”

“No! I mean, you needn’t. Er, I mean, you shouldn’t go back out in the storm.” Her cheeks were bright, surely from the fire’s warmth.

He could feel what it would have been like to be here, sheltering with her, if nothing had ever gone wrong, if he had not retreated from her side like a wounded animal, and the pain of the loss was as acute as any he had ever suffered.

Their eyes met, the exchange of glances the closest they had ever come to telling one another what a toll the effort of staying apart was taking on them.

“Very well, then,” he said at last, turning to the board laid out on the table between them. “How did you say this game was played?”

And the storm raged on.


	4. Now That We're Here

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continuation of chapter 32 of _At Your Side_ , "What About Now"

After a few moments, he felt her hands, soft and gentle, on the side of his face, and he shivered. How he had longed to feel her touch again. Lifting his head, he met her blue eyes, shining wet with tears. "I have missed you so much," she whispered.

Possibly it was a strange sentiment; they'd seen each other nearly every day. But he understood. "And I you, _me anim_ ," he said.

"I will never let anything part us again," Evelyn whispered. She pulled his head back down to hers, kissing him slowly, thoroughly, as if to satisfy herself he was really there. Her hands ran over the smooth leather of his armor, but it wasn’t enough. She wanted to see, to touch, to feel everything that lay underneath. Breaking the kiss, she glanced at the doorway. “Is there—can we go somewhere else?”

He swallowed visibly; to the best of Evelyn’s knowledge, no one had ever been farther inside the depths of the mansion than this room, other than her own visits to the library downstairs. She had no idea where it was that Fenris actually slept, although occasionally she had suspected he slept in those hideous brocade chairs he seemed to like so much.

Fenris moved off of her, climbing down from the desk where they had made love so hastily and readjusting his leggings. Evelyn sat up, hopping down from the desk and pulling her pants back into place. His silence was beginning to concern her. Was he suffering from cold feet so soon after having promised himself to her? “Fenris?”

“Yes?” And then, strongly, “Yes. I would be honored if you would accompany me upstairs.”

Evelyn smiled at him in relief and held out her hand.

Fenris’s mouth twitched, but there was nervousness there beneath the attempt at a smile. As he took her hand, Evelyn pulled him close, leaning in and running her tongue over his full bottom lip. He groaned, reaching for her, but she danced away, retaining her hold on his hand. “Upstairs,” she reminded him.

“Hm.” But she was glad to see enthusiasm had overtaken the anxiety in his eyes.

He led her from the room and up the stairs, but the progress was very slow. They had to step over wires stretched across the risers, navigate around stacks of breakables in the middle of the stairs, and avoid holes that looked as though they had been intentionally created. Finally they arrived at the top of the house, and Fenris unhooked a crossbow that was cocked in front of a closed door at the end of the hall before opening the door for her.

Hawke was saddened by the room. He’d made no attempt to clean up the debris left behind by the former servants, and had brought no comforts in beyond what was already there: a single mattress thrown carelessly at the back of the room and a thin sheet and blanket over it.

She turned toward him, meaning to express what she was feeling, but he was already looking uncomfortable, studying his bare feet. He moved backward toward the door.

“I am sorry. I should not have brought you here. We—if you prefer—“

Evelyn immediately felt guilty. There had been enough discomfort between them; she didn’t need to cause more by pitying him. Instead of answering with words, she began unbuttoning her blouse, letting the silky fabric slide off her arms and fall at her feet and dropping her breastband on top of it. “Please touch me,” she whispered.

Fenris raised his head, surprise and gratitude and arousal chasing each other across his face. His eyes lit with his smile. “Gladly.”

And then those long, sensitive fingers were on her body, one hand curving around her waist to hold her while the other traced patterns on her sensitive skin. He turned her so that the light from the dingy window fell on her body as he cupped and stroked her breasts. Evelyn clutched at his hips to hold herself up, because waves of warmth were flowing through her, weakening her knees.

Fenris dipped his head, his silky hair brushing against her skin, and took a nipple into his mouth, suckling lightly at first and then harder, as Evelyn moaned, arching her back. He was kneading the other breast as he tugged at her nipple with his teeth. Sharp spikes of arousal flashed through her. She had to taste him, as well, her mouth watering in anticipation. Pushing him back, Evelyn deftly unfastened the top of his armor. She hadn’t forgotten how; far from it. In the privacy of her fantasies, she had practiced the movements over and over. Once the hardened leather was on the floor, she attacked, pressing him against the wall as her hands and mouth followed the sculpted lines of muscles in his chest and abdomen.

Lyrium sparked under her tongue, Fenris panting under her ministrations and gasping words and phrases in Arcanum. He pulled her up to him, his hands curving around the sides of her head, their gentleness an erotic complement to the savage need in his kiss.

Evelyn was throbbing, heat building between her legs. She straddled his thigh, rubbing herself against him, sighing at the contact. Fenris growled deep in his throat. His hand left her hair and grasped her rear, pulling her even harder against him. Her leg was pressed against the hard ridge in his leggings. They ground together, the only sound in the room their heavy breathing.

Lost in the haze of pleasure, Evelyn slowly became aware that Fenris was struggling with her pants, trying to pull them down without disarranging their entwined legs. She disentangled herself from him, despite his wordless protest, and shed the rest of her clothes as she walked backward toward his mattress. Naked, she lay down on it with her legs open, her hands under her head.

Fenris’s eyes were blazing bright as he stared at her, nearly tripping over his own leggings in his haste to get them off. He managed at last, practically diving between her legs, his tongue finding just the spot that was in need of his touch.

Evelyn’s hips came off the mattress in immediate response. “Fenris!”

A faint scraping of teeth, just there, was his reply. His tongue traced the folds and circled, circled, circled, until she was crying out, her hips moving in a desperate desire. And then he placed his mouth where she wanted him and suckled.

Lightning flashed in her vision, her blood pounding in her ears as the pleasure broke over her. Her hips dropped back onto the mattress, her arms falling limply at her sides. The aftershocks rippled through her system, leaving her weak and spent at his side. But even as her arousal ebbed, he moved to lie next to her, that splendid taut body brushing against hers, those beloved green eyes gazing at her in wonder and triumph, and she felt the released tension begin to build again.

She rolled them over until she was straddling him, the heat of his erection pressed against her own warmth. Evelyn gave an experimental movement, drawing herself along his length. Fenris’s eyes closed at the sensation, his cheeks reddened with his own arousal. She bent, licking his nipples, and then, daringly, ran her tongue along one of the lines of lyrium. He drew in his breath in a long hiss and pumped his hips up against her. So she did it again.

In a single swift movement, he flipped her over and was on top of her, pinning her hands on either side of her head. There was a savagery in his eyes that told her she had pushed that particular sensation possibly farther than she should have so soon … but it thrilled her, too, and she lifted her hips against him in invitation.  
Instead of sliding inside her, he arched away, removing his hands from her wrists and lowering himself to her side, his hand gently stroking her belly. “Evelyn.”

“What is it? Is something wrong?”

“I want—I have desired this, desired you, too long to … hurry. I want …” He shuddered against her. “I want to go slowly.”

Long, deep thrusts, she thought dizzily. Oh, yes. “Yes, please. Slow. But now. Please?”

“Mm.” He bent to kiss her, moving his hips over hers. Evelyn guided him inside her, reveling in each sensation as he filled her, so slowly. And then he pulled out, almost completely, and back in again. Deliberately, without haste, with such great tenderness, kissing her cheeks and her forehead and her eyelids, his hand cupping the side of her face. Evelyn wrapped one leg around his hip, changing the angle just enough so that each movement stroked deliciously where she was most sensitive. It went on and on, the sensations too much, but Evelyn reveled in them—the scent of him so close to her, the sound of his moans in her ear, the hot, hard body pressed against hers, the hazy warmth in his green eyes as he looked at her.

Gradually his thrusts became more hurried, more erratic. “Evelyn. Evelyn, I cannot—I—“

“Almost … ah, yes … Fenris!” She drew his mouth down to hers, kissing him fiercely as their bodies thrust against each other. He cried out, shaking in her arms as the pleasure hit him, and his final thrust brought Evelyn to her release.

They lay, still entwined, their arms around each other, drifting together into the soft warmth of the Fade.


	5. Shall We Dance

“Then he dropped the duck and ran. He didn’t get far, though, because Merrill was waiting for him.” Evelyn chuckled, letting the door of the mansion close behind her.

“What I do not understand is why Varric needed that particular duck. Could he not have let the thief keep it and simply purchased another?” Fenris asked. Automatically his hands began on the buckles to her armor, and Evelyn sighed with relief as he helped her lift the breastplate off over her head before placing it on the stand.

“Well, he told me there was a large ruby stuck in its rear end, but you know Varric. ‘No shit, there I was, sticking this ruby up the duck’s ass’,” Hawke said, imitating Varric’s storytelling style.

Fenris laughed. “So you are saying we will never know why that particular duck.”

“I think he just liked it. Maybe he wanted to keep it as a pet. Oh, thank you, Bodahn,” she said, taking the letters her dwarven servant held out for her. He bowed and disappeared into the kitchen.

Evelyn carried her letters into the office, leaning one hip on the edge of her desk while she slit them open.

“Well, will you look at that?” She held one in the air, smiling.

“What?”

“Ruxton Harimann is getting married. Don’t know the girl,” she said, squinting at the name. “But his sister is holding an engagement ball for them. Terribly formal, no doubt, as befits Ruxton’s snobbishness.”

“A far cry from when we first met him,” Fenris said dryly.

Hawke grinned, remembering the scene in Ruxton Harimann’s bedroom, finding him entangled with an elven prostitute and shouting out such debauched things even Varric had been tempted to blush. “He was under the influence of a desire demon,” she reminded Fenris.

“Still.”

“Should be an interesting party, then, don’t you think?”

Fenris was leaning over poking the fire. He stopped, looking up at her. “You wish me to accompany you to this affair?”

“Well … of course.”

He straightened, his brow furrowing. “But do you not usually attend these things with Varric?”

“Or with a date. I used to do that, yes. But now that you and I are together, why would I want to go with anyone else?” Evelyn stood up, dropping the rest of the mail on her desk.

“It … simply had not occurred to me that you might wish me to accompany you to functions as your … er …”

“Man?” Evelyn hated to see him discomfited, but she was glad the subject had come up, if it was going to bother him so.

“Yes.”

“I do. I very much do.”

“Ah.”

“Don’t you want to go with me?”

“I have no wish to see you— No. Never mind.” He turned away, letting his bangs fall over his eyes.

“Nuh-uh.” Evelyn moved in front of him, ducking her head to look him in the eye under the fall of white hair. “What’s on your mind?”

“I do not belong in the circles you move in. I don’t want you to be … self-conscious.”

He was startled when she hooted with laughter, retreating to her desk and leaning on it. “Self-conscious? I got over that the first time I had to walk into the Viscount’s office still covered in blood and entrails.” Her laughter eased into a smile. “I don’t belong in those circles, either, Fenris. I’m a farm girl, born and raised in wild, barbaric Ferelden. I don’t go to these events to impress anyone with my fine manners or my gorgeous clothes.”

This much was true. Fenris often wished she would let him, or Varric, or Isabela, assist her in the selection of her finery. While he found her enchanting in anything she wore, she could look far more so if he had his way. “Then why do you attend them?”

“Because they’re fun. The people I like mostly outweigh the ones who are insufferable snobs or just plain evil.”

“But there are those others there. And you know what they will say. We’ve both heard the epithets as we walk around Kirkwall together—largely from those in Hightown, as you are well aware.”

“I know. And they bother me, I won’t deny it.” Evelyn came toward him again, standing very close. “But it would bother me more to hide from it. I love you, Fenris, and I’ve chosen to spend my life with you. I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

He couldn’t help himself. Those sweet words from her sweeter mouth made him hungry for the taste of her, and he pulled her close.

Evelyn broke away from the kiss to smile at him. “Besides.” Her hands skimmed up the outside of his thighs teasingly. “What fun would it be to go anywhere without you? No one else gets all my jokes.”

Fenris shivered at her touch, but he still felt uncomfortable. “Varric does,” he muttered. He wasn’t proud of the jealousy he could never quite conquer, but he couldn’t deny it.

“Not all of them, he doesn’t.” She was licking his ear now, and suddenly it didn’t matter how many of her jokes Varric got—he never got his ear nibbled, and that was enough for Fenris.  
\----- ----- ----- ----- ----- -----  
He leaned against the doorway, watching her as she finished pulling on her gloves. Evelyn cast a sideways glance at him. “You know, I can’t believe I forgot to mention the most important reason for you to come   
along to this thing.”

“What’s that?”

“That black armor.” She made an appreciative sound that shot straight through him.

“If you like it so much, we could stay home and you could demonstrate your admiration,” he growled.

“Nice try.” She came closer, cupping his face in her gloved hands, which he found surprisingly erotic. “This time, I want to dance with you all night, not just for a few brief moments that neither one of us can enjoy.” They both remembered that agonizingly brief dance at Aveline’s wedding—the dance that had convinced Evelyn there was no future for her with another man, and had convinced Fenris that he had to take steps to meet his sister and greet his future.

Fenris leaned his forehead against hers. “When you put it that way, I admit it does sound appetizing,” he whispered huskily.

“Then let’s go, before I really do have you out of that armor.” She punctuated the comment by sliding her hand along the supple black leather over his stomach. Fenris grabbed it, kissing her gloved fingertips.

“If you insist.” He wasn’t quite as reluctant as he pretended to be—he relished the idea of holding her in public and showing to the world that she belonged to him. But it was true that the racial epithets and the disgusted reactions of people who saw them together bothered her. Fenris hated to see her upset and to know that he, even if only indirectly, was the cause of it.

All of Hightown appeared to have been invited to this event, judging by the streams of people heading toward the Harimann estate. Fenris saw a number of their neighbors, but they refused to make eye contact with him. Typical enough.

Hawke’s hand tightened on his arm; she saw them, too. And it distressed her. Fenris hated that it bothered her—even the downtrodden, despised elves of Kirkwall’s alienage were better off than where he had come from. Although, he thought, his mouth quirking at the corner at the irony, it was far more common a sight in Tevinter to see an elf and a human embracing, since masters often enjoyed taking their bedslaves out in public. He and Hawke would have drawn notice in Tevinter only because they were walking side-by-side.

Flora Harimann greeted them at the door. “Serah Hawke! And Messere Fenris. Such a pleasure to have you both.”

“Where’s the happy couple?” Hawke asked.

“Over there, pinned against the fireplace by the De Launcets. Although Ruxton doesn’t mind as much as I should in his shoes.”

The tall, dark-haired Ruxton certainly seemed happy enough, chatting with the De Launcets with one arm around his thin, long-nosed bride-to-be and the other wrapped around a wineglass.

“I’ll leave him to it, then,” Hawke said. “And you, Flora? Are you well?”

“What? Oh … fine. Perfectly fine.” Flora seemed distracted suddenly, looking over Hawke’s shoulder. Fenris followed her gaze to see the shining white armor of his friend Sebastian and smothered a smile. Flora’s interest in Sebastian had been easy to see three years ago; clearly it had not abated in the intervening years. Unfortunately, it was an interest doomed to go unreturned. Sebastian’s devotion to the Chantry was total. Privately, Fenris thought it was a bit of a waste to dedicate your whole life to an institution that could not care for you in return, but Sebastian found fulfillment in his calling.

Sebastian joined them now. “Flora!” he said in his rich, warm brogue, kissing her cheek, oblivious to the way it reddened at his touch.

Fenris tugged lightly on Hawke’s arm to pull her away from the two of them. He understood Sebastian’s commitment to the Chantry, but still held out hope that his friend might find something more fulfilling to do with his life. Andrastean Fenris might be, but he saw little point in spending one’s life in her service. If the Maker had truly turned his back on all of them, it behove them to work for themselves instead.

He spied Varric across the room, busily chatting up a bevy of well-dressed young ladies. The dwarf was short, hairy, occasionally vulgar, and dressed like an Antivan prostitute … yet women were drawn to him. Not in the way that Fenris was aware women were drawn to himself—salivating but frightened, in relatively equal measures. Women loved Varric. They spoke to him openly of their thoughts and dreams, they shared their feelings with him. They trusted him. And men were not threatened by him.

Well, most men, Fenris corrected himself. In a secret place he did not like to look into, he was threatened by Varric’s relationship with Hawke. It was uncomplicated, supportive, and seemed completely open; the two of them shared an understanding that others around them couldn’t follow. It made Fenris wonder what, other than the physical, he brought to the table that Varric couldn’t already provide.

As if sensing the dark turn of his thoughts, Hawke laid her hand briefly on the small of his back. Fenris shivered at the touch. It was still so strange to be casually touched like that and not to instantly leap to the attack.

As they made their way through the crowds of chatting people, a minor noble from the Nevarran embassy stepped in front of them.

“The Champion of Kirkwall,” he said, lifting his glass in a toast. “What a great pleasure it is to meet you.” His eyes raked her body, encased in a tight-fitting gown of black silk. “One wonders where you keep your blades concealed.”

“I don’t. My sword is longer than your leg; I left it at home as being out of place in a party,” Hawke said coldly.

“Please do not feel the need to jest so, dear lady. I am impressed with your prowess as it is.”

“Impressed you may be, but you are certainly also misinformed.”

“Perhaps we could discuss it with a dance.” His eyes slid over Fenris briefly and without curiosity. “If your bodyguard could be persuaded to trust you with me for a brief time.”

“Thank you, but I am not interested. And Fenris is not my bodyguard.” Hawke slid her arm around Fenris’s waist in an unmistakable message.

The Nevarran noble glanced again at Fenris. “I see. I had heard that Fereldans were willing to sleep with their dogs; I suppose it should come as no surprise that they sleep with their elves as well.”

It was an uninspired insult. Fenris didn’t think it merited so much as a raised eyebrow, but he had to catch Hawke’s arm to keep her from attacking the man.

“Barbarians,” the noble said with a simpering smile on his face. “None of them have the wit to handle themselves in civilized conversation; they must always turn to their fists.” He turned away, yawning, and then yelped as he tripped over an unseen person. With champagne dripping down his waistcoat, he glared at the dwarf who had been in his way. “Watch where you’re standing!”

“So sorry, my lord.” Varric’s tone was utterly sincere, and Fenris smothered a smile. Varric glanced at him quickly, jerking his head toward the dance floor.

“Shall we dance, before we cause an international incident?” Fenris murmured in Hawke’s ear.

“Us? He’s the one causing the incident!”

“Hawke.”

“Fine.” She let him draw her out onto the floor, albeit reluctantly. As the music played and Fenris led her in the steps of the dance, her temper cooled until at last she was smiling at him. “Sorry about that.”

“Hawke, people are going to continue to make remarks about our relationship. Do you truly need to fight them all?”

“Not all, just the ones who get in my face and insult my nationality into the bargain. Surely I’m not supposed to just stand there and let him say that being with you is lower than being with a dog, and impute that to my birthplace, without defending myself?” Her blue eyes were wide with outrage.

Fenris skillfully maneuvered them past two other couples who were executing a very showy set of steps. “Are his words true?”

“Of course not, but what does that matter? To allow him to say them uncontested doesn’t benefit anyone.”

“To attack him over them in a party held in someone else’s honor doesn’t, either. Is this how we repay Flora Harimann for inviting us?”

Hawke frowned. “I suppose not. But—“

“There is no but, Evelyn. Our commitment to one another will cease to be notable if we cease to be so strident in defending it.”

“How long does that take?”

“As long as it does, I suppose. In the meanwhile, we are missing a moment I have looked forward to with some enthusiasm.”

“What moment is that?”

Fenris pulled her more closely into his arms. Letting his voice drop in the way he knew she loved, he said into her ear, “The moment when I have the chance to dance with you.”

Evelyn shivered against him, her hands tightening on his waist and shoulder. “That’s a very good point.”

Three more songs went on as they moved together, lost in each other’s arms. At last the musicians took a break and reluctantly, Evelyn and Fenris broke apart. He loved to see her beautiful blue eyes gone all soft and hazy.

“We have not seen much of the party,” he whispered to her.

“Ask me if I care.”

“Do you care?”

For answer, she kissed him, soft and sweet.

As they stood gazing happily into one another’s eyes, a voice interrupted their dreamy fugue. “Well, that’ll certainly get you the attention you were looking for.”

“Varric, be elsewhere,” Fenris said. The dwarf’s voice was like a splash of cold water.

“And miss the fun? Not on your life, elf.”

“What is it that you think you are doing?” Another voice, this time the well-bred accent of Seneschal Bran, who had dated Hawke for a brief period of time. “Serah Hawke, I had thought better of you. Such displays are not appropriate—and not good for international relations,” he added in a lower voice.

“I know, Bran.” Hawke sighed. “I’m afraid you’re doomed to disappointment where I’m concerned, and I am sorry about that. But about the rest of it, I’m not sorry at all. It’s time for Thedas to make a change and if it starts with me, so be it.”

Bran shook his head. “There are days, Serah Hawke, when I am not sure if the day you arrived here was the luckiest day for Kirkwall.”

She chuckled. “Funny, I always wonder if it was the luckiest day for me.”

Bran raised his eyebrows and turned on his heel. Fenris spied Sebastian making his way toward them through the crowd, and turned toward his friend. “I am sorry if we made Flora or her brother uncomfortable.”

“Apparently I make Flora uncomfortable,” Sebastian said, glancing over his shoulder with a sigh. “She wants me to tell you she’s sorry if you’ve been made to feel unwelcome at a party to which she invited you.”

“Not at all,” Hawke said, slipping her arm around Fenris’s waist. “We’re having a lovely time.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” Sebastian’s blue eyes twinkled. “I don’t suppose I could claim a dance with the lovely lady?”

“You dance, Choirboy?” Varric asked. Fenris had forgotten the dwarf was there, and the waspish tone made him jump. “I thought Andraste forbade such goings-on.”

“Andraste herself danced and sang. Joy made her happy,” Sebastian replied seriously, ignoring the barb in the dwarf’s words. “What do you say, Hawke?”

“By all means. Just as long as you don’t mind having your feet stepped on. Fenris is remarkably sensitive about it.” She cast him a teasing glance.

“Perhaps if he wore something on his feet, then.” Sebastian grinned, holding out his arms to Hawke.

Fenris stepped to the side, content to watch her as she spun and swayed in the arms of his friend.

“Not worried the Choirboy will sweep her off her feet, elf?”

He smiled. “Not in the least.”

“No.” Varric looked at the dancing couple. “No, I don’t suppose there is. None of you know the first thing about creating romantic tension.”

“Three years wasn’t enough for you, dwarf?”

Varric cast him a venomous look. “That wasn’t tension, that was torture. For everyone who cares about her. Do you have any idea what you put her through?”

Fenris flushed, his gaze dropping to his toes. He had some idea of the difficulties Hawke had suffered, but he imagined he knew less of them than Varric did, as the dwarf had been there all along and he had not.

Varric seemed to feel enough had been said. He cleared his throat and moved away toward a servant with a tray of champagne in fluted glasses. Fenris lifted his head and caught Hawke’s eye across the crowded room. Her smile banished the darkness that had begun to gather around him. She had forgiven him for his foolishness—in time, those who cared for her would no doubt forgive him as well.

His presence here as an elf garnered far less attention than it would have done a mere few years ago … in time, who was to say that more elves might not be accepted amongst those of higher birth? Ferelden was already changing its ways in that regard, and the Free Marches were not that dissimilar to the country to the south, much as they might like to protest otherwise.

The dance ended, Hawke and Sebastian bowing to each other, and she came back to Fenris’s side, slipping her arm through his.

“Have you enjoyed your evening?” he asked her.

“It’s been entertaining.”

“Do you feel more … comfortable about appearing in public with me now?”

She looked at him, her blue eyes wide. “It was never you I was uncomfortable about. It was these people here, and I think they’ve proven that many of them are asses.”

“Not all. Not even most. Some are our friends, most appear uninterested, and only the occasional imbecile has something to say.” He held her gaze seriously. “It seems to me that you are agitated by these people out of all proportion. Why is that?”

Hawke fidgeted uncomfortably, her face twisting as she considered the question. Fenris felt badly for forcing the issue, but it was one they were going to have to resolve, or every time they were out together outside the Hanged Man they would go through scenes similar to the ones they had faced this evening.

“I guess,” she said finally, “I just want everyone to see in you what I see. I am so proud to be seen with you, Fenris.”

He shook his head, but he could not repress the smile that stole across his face at her words. “I do not know why … but then, I suppose I do not have to know,” he continued, preventing the explanation he could see bubbling to her lips. “It is enough to know that you feel it. And because I know how you feel, I do not have to care what other people think. The only person whose opinion matters to me is you.” His hands cupped the sides of her face. “And I would love to take you home right now and show you how I appreciate you.”

“I think that sounds like the finest idea of the night.” Hawke’s blue eyes warmed on his. “I love you, Fenris.”

“And I love you, Evelyn.”


	6. Lowtown at Night

The Hanged Man, as always, was bustling. Hawke had just finished the nightly meeting; Varric privately suspected she held them more as an excuse to get out of Gamlen’s house every night than for any more practical purpose, but having her here every night was more amusing than the dullness that had preceded his friendship with her, so he wasn’t complaining. Before he’d met Hawke, he’d been giving serious consideration to moving away from Kirkwall—he was glad that she had prevented him from having to follow through on such a drastic alteration in his quite comfortable lifestyle.

The fly in the ointment this evening was that he had been waving his mug at Norah the waitress for the last hour, and he knew she’d seen him, but no refill on ale had appeared. She had refilled the mugs of everyone else at the table, whether they needed it or not, which was why Daisy was currently fast asleep on the table. Apparently two ales was at least one too many for the slender elf.

Hawke raised a hand, signaling for another mug, and when Norah brought it to her, slid it down the table to Varric. The glare the dark-haired waitress shot at him said that particular ploy wouldn’t work a second time, but once was enough for the moment.

“Was it something you said?” Hawke asked.

“I may have suggested the chamber pots could be cleaned more often.” Norah doubled as chambermaid, but it wasn’t a job she did willingly, or cheerfully.

“You could always clean them yourself.”

“That’ll be the day.” He grinned at his friend.

Hawke shook her head. “You don’t know how good you have it.”

“Why don’t you try it? There’s plenty of extra space, and I could convince Corff to give you a good rate.”

She frowned. “Might be all right for me, but can you see Mother and Bethany living in the Hanged Man? I don’t think so.”

It was on the tip of Varric’s tongue to suggest she leave her mother and sister at Gamlen’s, where they both seemed much happier than she was, but he knew better. Short as their acquaintance had been, they agreed that there were certain topics best left alone, and Hawke’s family was at the top of her list. He looked around for another area of conversation, and caught sight of the tattooed elf, who was just lifting a mug of ale to his mouth.

“So, elf.” He kept hoping the elf would be an impermanent enough part of their little crew that he wouldn’t have to bother making up a nickname for him; Varric couldn’t have said what it was about the broody sod that made him nervous, but something did. Possibly it was the way Hawke looked at him. Not that Varric had any romantic designs on Hawke himself … but he didn’t like it, all the same. “Tell me, how does it feel to escape the life of a slave?” It was deliberately an insolent question, to provoke a response, which it did.

Fenris froze, his mug in his mouth. Slowly he put it down and swiveled his head to look at Varric. His response was pronounced precisely and with contempt. “Foolhardy.”

“Yet here you are,” Varric muttered under his breath, returning to his own ale. He should have known better than to expect anything more interesting.  
\----- ----- ----- ----- ----- -----  
Fenris frowned at the dwarf. He was aware that Varric viewed him warily, and that was perfectly fine. He returned the wariness tenfold … not just toward the dwarf, but toward the rest of Hawke’s crew, as well.

He only wished he felt as wary toward Hawke herself. Lifting his mug again, he took a long swallow of the weakly flavored liquid, using the mug to conceal the way he couldn’t stop watching her as she carried on an animated conversation with her sister. Her blue eyes sparkled and snapped, punctuating the lively discussion. Her face was lovely, the features even and precise … but it was her mouth that fascinated Fenris. Sweet and soft, with full lips and a subtle curve that always suggested she was just about to smile. He had a hard time looking anywhere else when she was speaking—something about the way her lips rounded and changed as she spoke was so compelling. Her voice was clear and cool in his ears, sharp, like the air in Kirkwall now that the winter was approaching. None of Danarius’s oily tones or Hadriana’s sickeningly sweet whine. Hawke’s voice said she was in charge, and that she had something to say worth listening to. Fenris could happily have listened to her speak for hours.

As Hawke got up to join Isabela at the bar, Fenris dragged his eyes away from her, staring down into the nearly colorless ale in his mug. He had no right to gaze at her; he was far beneath what Hawke would deserve. And it was a bad idea from his end, as well—he could not afford to have ties that bound him to any one place. It would be only a matter of time, and little time, at that, before Danarius came from him again, and he had resolved to sell his life dearly if it meant a chance at ending his former master’s. He would not allow anything to distract him from that purpose. Not even Hawke.

Or so he told himself as his eyes rose as if magnetized from the pale liquid in the mug to the slender, toned figure in the light armor crossing the bar. Perhaps—perhaps it would do no harm just to look.  
\----- ----- ----- ----- ----- -----  
Fenris was unaware of the eyes that watched him watching Hawke—the dwarf’s speculative, Isabela’s amused. Isabela had a vantage point that Varric didn’t, however: She could see Hawke, too.

“Busy day,” she remarked casually, lifting her mug.

Hawke raised her own and clinked it against Isabela’s. “Aren’t they all?”

“Who are you kidding, sweet thing? You like it that way.”

Staring morosely into the cup, Hawke muttered, “It’s the only way I can sleep in that place, if I’m too tired to think.”

“Gamlen’s place that bad? Huh.” Isabela hadn’t given it much thought. “Sleep in a few shipboard cabins and any bed that holds still is good for sleeping.” She winked. “The ones that move are better for other things.”

“Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind,” Hawke said. She smiled, but the gloom shadowing her blue eyes didn’t lift.

“You know what you need, sweetheart,” Isabela said. She glanced at Hawke with what appeared to be casual good humor, but she was watching closely for the other woman’s reaction. “You need a nice, relaxing … tumble.”

Hawke nearly spat her ale out, which wasn’t unexpected.

“Come on. I know just the right person, too.”

Now it came, Hawke’s quick, darting look back toward their table and the beautiful elf whose tattoos shone in the dimly lit bar. Isabela kept her triumphant smile hidden with difficulty, amused that the other woman, usually so quick to spot a trap, had walked right into this one.

“I don’t think so, Isabela, but thanks for the offer.”

Isabela couldn’t help but be impressed by the speediness with which Hawke had covered her lapse, so she went along with it, in the spirit of the thing. And because she had a certain curiosity about Hawke, which she wouldn’t have minded sating in any number of different pleasurable ways. “You don’t know what you’re missing.”

“I spend enough time here, I think I’ve seen most of it.”

“Seeing is nothing. You should try feeling.”

Hawke turned so her back was resting against the edge of the bar, casually, but Isabela didn’t miss the way her eyes searched the dim back of the room for the flash of the elf’s white hair. There was a naked longing on her face that almost made Isabela feel she should look away. Then Hawke blinked, shuttering her eyes and composing her features, and she shook her head. “Not now. Not until Bethany is safe and we have a place we Hawkes can call home here in Kirkwall. Then, maybe, I’ll have time for my own feelings.”

“You know, a person can choke on nobility.”

“I’m not a noble.”

Isabela huffed a laugh. “Didn’t say you were. Said you have nobility—there’s a difference. I think you got a bit too much of it, though.”

Hawke squinted at her, then sighed. “I can’t follow you tonight. Too tired. I think I’ll go—back to Gamlen’s, see if I can get some sleep. Maybe if I get home before he gets back from the Blooming Rose, I won’t hear him snoring all night.”

“Good luck.” Isabela had been in the Rose once or twice when a new girl had let Gamlen fall asleep. It wasn’t pretty. She watched Hawke leave the bar with sympathetic eyes, and relief at being unfettered by her own family. Freedom was well worth whatever it might cost, she thought, reaching for her mug.

A flash of white caught her eye, and she lifted an eyebrow, drinking deeply as she observed Fenris’s hasty departure. So it was mutual, was it? How interesting.  
\----- ----- ----- ----- ----- -----  
Hawke paused outside the Hanged Man, breathing in the still, heavy air. Lowtown at night was hardly refreshing, but it was still better than being in the midst of the crush of people who filled the bar. She looked up, trying to see the stars through the narrow gap between buildings. One of the things she missed most about Ferelden—the stars. The trees, the fields, the sense of openness … Kirkwall was short on all of them.

She sighed, beginning to move toward the squalid tenements where Gamlen’s place was located. It wasn’t considered safe to walk alone in any part of Lowtown, but her growing reputation kept the more legitimate—and therefore better trained—groups off of her. Hawke almost hoped some of the less legitimate ruffians would jump her. A good fight would be something tangible to do, some way to hit out at all the nameless things that were bothering her about her life. Bethany, her mother, Gamlen, trying to make enough money to buy into Varric’s expedition … Her mind drifted in the direction of Fenris’s beautiful green eyes and smoky voice and she resolutely plucked it back. The elf might be temptation personified, but he, and any other men, were off limits.

Lost in her determined thoughts, Hawke was startled to hear the voice that had figured so largely in them coming from the shadows behind her.

“You should pay more attention to your surroundings. In these alleys, many things lie in wait.”

“I’ve spent more time in Lowtown than you have, Fenris. There’s no need to lecture me,” she said tartly.

“There is when a person can sneak up on you without you being aware of their approach.”

“Worried about me?” The words left her lips without forethought, and her eyes met Fenris’s in a moment that made the air of Lowtown seem to still and hang arrested between them.

Fenris looked away first, and Hawke frowned at herself. She must have imagined it; an elf on the run from the Tevinters had more on his mind than lust. Just like she ought to.

Clearing his throat, Fenris said, “Perhaps you would allow me to accompany you back to Gamlen’s.”

Hawke knew her cheeks must have turned bright red—and not, as they should have, in embarrassment—because he hastened to keep talking.

“To add another blade, in the event you should run into some manner of ruffian along the way.”

Maker, she even found his overly ornate way of talking sexy. Oh, she was in big trouble here. Big trouble. Unable to speak, afraid she might accidentally say all the things she was thinking, she nodded instead, and Fenris fell into step beside her.

“It is a surprisingly peaceful night,” he observed.

“That, or Varric’s finally managed to make me seem scary.”

“He has his work cut out for him.”

Hawke glanced Fenris’s way, but he wasn’t looking at her, and his face gave no clue as to how he had meant the comment. She let it go, and he didn’t speak again until they were at the foot of the cracked stairs leading up to Gamlen’s.

“Safely arrived.”

“Yes, thank you.” Not that he had done much except ruin whatever peace of mind she had hoped to rebuild in the solitude. Hawke was grateful for once that Gamlen’s provided no privacy, because otherwise she might have been tempted to ask Fenris in and damn the consequences.

“Hawke.”

“Yes?”

“It is I who should be thanking you. It has been a long time—That is, never in my life have I had the freedom to walk down the street when I chose to do so, and the confidence of knowing that if I were to be attacked by Danarius’s men, someone else would be at my side to aid in my fight. I owe you—“

“No, you don’t,” she cut in. “Really.”

“I add nothing of value to your band of adventurers; it is your generosity that has found me a place there.”

“You’re here, aren’t you? Walking me home? None of the others would have thought to do that.” Evelyn left unsaid the fact that she wouldn’t have let any of the others walk with her. That was beside the point. “You have value to me.”

A shaft of moonlight filtered through the clouds and made its way between the slanting roofs of the building to illuminate his face as they looked at one another, and Evelyn felt a tug deep in her heart, a strange sensation she’d never felt before. It disturbed her profoundly.

“Good-night, Fenris,” she said hurriedly.

“Good-night, Hawke.” He gave her a formal nod of his head before turning toward the Hightown stairs. As she watched him go, she wondered what it would be like to hear him call her ‘Evelyn’. Then she shoved that thought down next to the memory of that strange tug at her heartstrings, safely away where she wouldn’t have to think of them, and she went inside Gamlen’s to another sleepless night on her thin pallet.


	7. Fireworks

Hawke leaned her shoulder against the window frame, looking out toward the Viscount’s Keep. Men would be bustling around the courtyard there, busily laying the charges that would become tonight’s fireworks. She could picture the serious, intense face of Seneschal Bran as he barked orders and oversaw the placement.

It was quiet in the house behind her. The servants had the night off; Bodahn and Sandal were off to wherever it was they went when they weren’t at home and Orana had gone down to the alienage to celebrate with Merrill and the other elves. They had a ceremony that Merrill said held on to a surprising number of the Dalish customs. Hawke knew it was always bittersweet for Merrill to celebrate without her clan, and hoped her friend would have an enjoyable night despite Marethari’s stubbornness.

Down in Lowtown, the Hanged Man would be preparing for its annual lock-in. And while Varric settled down near the fire to tell stories, Isabela would be prowling the crowd, deciding whose strokes she would be accepting at the stroke of midnight. Hawke had joined them the last few years, but not this year.

Craning her neck, she could just make out the lights of the Chantry. Sebastian would be in there, chanting along with the mothers as they beseeched Andraste and the absent Maker to bless the upcoming year and to forgive them all for the sins of the outgoing one. Hawke was sure he felt she should be there, kneeling and numbering each of her many sins. That was assuming she could remember them all in the first place, she thought with an inward grin. No, she’d leave concern about her immortal soul to the professionals. Maybe her parents would put in a good word for her with the Maker when her time came. In any case, it wasn’t worth worrying about tonight.

A guard strolled by below the window. Hawke was sure it was neither Aveline nor Donnic—neither of them would have felt it acceptable to work such a cushy job as Hightown on the last night of the year. They’d be making sure the fireworks weren’t stolen, or down in Darktown where the new year brought only new crime. No celebration there. Anders usually held an open clinic, and folks lined up to be healed as fast as he could lay hands on them, starting the year off healthy.

On previous New Year’s Eves, Hawke had joined each of her companions, taking part in their rituals. But there was one she had never spent the last night of a year with—it had always seemed too painful to start off a new year in the presence of someone she wanted so desperately but couldn’t have.

Tonight, that was all changing.

No sooner had Hawke thought the words, a slow smile spreading across her face, than a slim, lyrium-lit arm passed around her waist, and she was drawn back against a strong, wiry body. Their relationship was only a couple of months old, and her heart still leaped under the faintest touch, her hunger for him flaming bright and hot.

Fenris rested his chin on her shoulder. “Has it begun yet?”

“No. We haven’t reached midnight yet.” She put her hand over his, thrilling at the easy casualness with which his fingers moved to wrap around hers. “I know there are no clocks in that dilapidated heap you live in, but the rest of the world actually pays attention to the passage of time.”

He chuckled, the sound vibrating against her ear.

They stood quietly together for a few moments, looking out at the clear, starry night above the buildings.

After a while, Fenris said, “Is there more to this ritual of the changing of the year than this waiting for the fireworks to begin?”

“I’m sure the year changes in Tevinter.”

“Yes, but what is another year to a slave? Just another round of days in which to leap to the master’s bidding. And the magisters are not fond of being reminded of the passage of time—every year that passes brings them closer to the loss of their power and the ascension of a newer, younger mage.”

“You always make it sound like such a welcoming place.”

He snorted, and Hawke tightened the grip of her fingers on his, thinking of how close she had come so many times to losing him back into that nightmare.

After a few moments’ silence, she said, “Resolutions.”

“What?”

“Resolutions. That’s the other part of the New Year’s ritual. You make a list of things you want to do differently in the coming year. You must have heard us talking about them in the past.”

“Oh, yes. Isabela’s always is to have more fun.”

“She likes to aim for reachable goals.”

He chuckled again, nuzzling her ear. “It’s possible for Isabela to exceed the amount of fun she has in each successive year?”

“Well, when you put it that way she sounds downright ambitious.” Hawke turned her head to meet his mouth with hers for a long, lingering kiss.

They broke apart, both breathing heavily but content to let the passion between them rise slowly, knowing they had the whole night for it to peak.

“Should I have any resolutions for the year to come?” he asked.

“Yes. Stay right here with me, and don’t brood so much.”

“I cannot imagine what you might mean. I—“

“Don’t brood,” she finished for him, and they laughed together.

When his laughter had faded, he turned her to face him, his voice hoarse with emotion. “Hawke. I am not going anywhere, I promise you that. I need no new year to teach me what I already know—that I could not bear to be without you, ever again.”

She cupped his cheek with her hand, nodding. “I feel the same.”

“And what of you?” he asked tenderly. “Are there resolutions you would make, ways to change your life that you have contemplated?”

“Well, the resolution I had planned to make has already come true.” Hawke slid her arms around his waist to make her meaning perfectly clear.

“I do not believe I am worthy of being your resolution.”

“Then you’re the only one.” She chuckled. “I’m pretty sure if things hadn’t worked out between us already, everyone else was intending to have a go at getting us together.”

Fenris’s cheeks heated with embarrassment and he looked away, uncomfortable either with the reminder of how much she cared for him or with the reminder of how much he had hurt her.

“Hey.” Hawke reached up and turned his head back toward her. “And don’t you dare apologize again. We’re done with all that now.”

“Yes. Yes, we are. I am—“ He caught himself, smiling and kissing her fingertips as she drew them across his mouth. “Besides the current situation being resolved, is there anything you would like to be different in the coming year? Whatever it is, I will do my best to procure it for you.”

“Maybe you could learn to speak in contractions.” She grinned at him.

“Pardon?”

“Never mind. I wouldn’t really want you to anyway.”

“You are making sport, but it was a serious question.”

Hawke sighed, leaning forward until her cheek was pressed against the smooth leather of his armor. She closed her eyes, feeling the warmth of him and hearing his steady heartbeat. “It seems ungrateful to have what I wanted most and then to want more.”

She could feel the heaviness of his head as it came to rest on hers, the silky brush of his hair against her face. “Nonetheless. I am certain you have plans, desires, schemes. You always have.”

“No plans, or none that I know of. Just … I want someone else to do this.”

“Do what?”

Sitting back, Hawke gestured out toward Kirkwall. “All of it. The fighting and the arguing and the standing up for everyone. I want someone else to step forward and say ‘it’s all right, Hawke, I’ve got this.’”

“It wears on you.”

“It does. I’m tired of fighting battles that I don’t care about, for a town I never wanted to live in anyway. Kirkwall to me is you and Varric and Isabela and Aveline and the crowd at the Hanged Man. The rest of them can go hang, for all I care.” She touched the windowframe gently, words tumbling out of her in a rush. “I only came back here because of Mother, and Bethany, and look where it got them. They wanted all this; and now I’m stuck with it, and I just want … I want to be left alone to enjoy my life, instead of constantly being out there risking it on the behalf of people who don’t know me and don’t care about me and aren’t brave enough to fight for themselves.” Hawke paused for breath. She hadn’t even known how much it all bothered her, not really.

“I want that, too,” Fenris whispered. His gentle hands stroked her face. “I want your safety assured so that I need never wonder if you will survive the day. Because if you did not—“ He broke off, shaking his head. “It would be more than I could bear.”

Hawke took his hands in hers, kissing the lyrium-marked fingers. “So our New Year’s resolution is to find someone else who can step forward to be the Champion of Kirkwall.”

“It is.” He moved closer, pressing his body against hers. “And not to waste a moment of our time together.”

“I’ll second that one,” Hawke murmured. “Come to bed.”

“I thought you desired to watch the firework display.”

“Who needs them? We’ll make our own fireworks.”


	8. In Fantasy

Fenris sank into his favorite chair, the one that had long ago formed dents and curves that conformed to his body, and uncorked one of the bottles of wine that sat next to it. He was bringing the bottles up from the cellars by the armload now, a fact that gave him pause for several reasons. First, because at this rate he would run out much faster, and second, because even though he had a high tolerance for the fermented grape, he felt he was nearing the threshold between over-indulgence and reliance.

Still, he thought, raising the bottle and taking the first long swallow, without it he wasn’t certain he would be able to endure these long, sleepless nights. In the months since he had fled Hawke’s bedroom, his sleep had been fitful at best. The memories of her mouth and hands on his skin, of her cries of pleasure as he touched her, haunted his dreams, and he would awaken aching with a longing that the touch of his own hands could never entirely slake.

And so, he drank. Because after a day of “following Hawke”, as the blood mage put it, the memories were so strong they tormented his waking thoughts as thoroughly as they saturated his unconscious.

The sensible thing to do would be to avoid her, to stay far from Hawke’s side, but he could not do that. He was too weak to remove himself from her presence entirely—there was no question of it. And he had promised, he reminded himself. As he all but ran from her bedroom, he had promised to remain at her side, and he would keep that promise, no matter how the sight and scent of her taunted him. He had been right to leave her that night; right to break off any further romantic contact between them. Fenris clung to that knowledge.

The bottle in his hand was almost half empty now. He stared at it in surprise, not having been aware he had drunk so much. Taking another long swallow, Fenris tried to direct his thoughts elsewhere. He used to be able to while away many a long hour with dark thoughts of his life with Danarius, or with plans for how he would deal with his former master when he came calling, as someday, inevitably, he would. But now, he could think of nothing but Hawke.

With her typical generosity, Hawke attempted to treat him as though nothing had occurred between them, but Fenris knew her well enough by now to be able to see through her feigned indifference and to glimpse the hurt and confusion that still lay within her.

He drained the last drops from the bottle, staring at it in irritation. It should have contained more. Uncorking another one seemed an onerous undertaking, but he wished for more. Closing his eyes, he could still see Hawke’s blue eyes on him, with that soft, sad look she had when she thought he was not watching her, the one that caused him to rethink his decision to leave her over and over again.

Shifting deeper into the depths of the chair, Fenris could not help but let his thoughts wander to what might have occurred had he not fled her home the way he had. Without meaning to, he pictured himself drawing her into his arms as he had that night, holding her against him as she slid into sleep, but now, instead of remembering the way he had removed himself from the bed, desperate to recover the scraps of memories he had glimpsed, he imagined himself curling around her, surrendering himself to sleep alongside her, and waking in the morning as the birds began to chirp outside the window, opening his eyes to see her face in the early morning light.

_Hawke stirred slightly, her eyes fluttering a few times before they came fully open. She smiled at him. “I thought you might have been a dream.”_

_“If so, I would be sorry to wake.”_

_“That was—“ She made an appreciative noise in the back of her throat, stretching like a cat beneath the warm covers, her naked body pressing against his in many interesting and arousing ways._

_Fenris moaned, shuddering at the contact. He had thought himself spent the previous night, but the silkiness of her skin touching him so intimately had him stirring to life. “Hawke.” And then, still savoring the novelty of it, “Evelyn.”_

_It was her turn to shudder, wriggling even closer to him. “Fenris.”_

_It occurred to him that he did not know what came after a night spent together, what the permissions and expectations had become. As Evelyn’s hand moved over his side, skimming his hip and then finding the evidence that her beauty was no less affecting in the light of day than it had been in last night’s darkness, he determined that a repetition of last night’s activity was clearly allowed, even encouraged, and he pressed himself against that seeking hand with a moan of approval. Or possibly of supplication, because her touch was so exquisite he never wanted it to cease._

_Evelyn chuckled, her fingers seeking and finding sensitive places to stroke and press. She watched his face avidly, evidently enjoying his response to her actions. Fenris wished to respond in kind, but it was difficult to form an intention, much less carry one out, while she was rubbing and caressing so expertly. Before she could bring him to completion, he mustered what strength he had and caught her hand in his._

_“Please.”_

_“Is there something you need?” she asked teasingly, pressing small kisses to his jawline._

_Fenris had no words for what he needed, at least, none that he felt comfortable using in front of her. What came to mind were urgent vulgarities, expressions of need that might not be foreign to her ears, but were not such as he had ever imagined himself saying to a woman of her class and quality. “Please,” he said again, hoping that the desperation in his voice would convey his desires. He reached toward her, gripping her hip, trying to tug her body to his so that she would know how he wanted to feel her body around him, over him, above him._

_“Ah.” There was a satisfaction in her voice as she moved above him, and in her moan as she guided him inside her. Her heat enveloped him, her mouth coming down on his as she rocked slowly on top of him._

_Lost in her, Fenris could see nothing of his memories in the back of his mind—all that existed for him was Hawke. Soon they were thrusting together, the tension building between them until it snapped, uncoiling with a pleasure Fenris had never imagined._

_Still joined to him, Hawke collapsed on his chest, resting her head on his shoulder. “I never imagined it would be like this.”_

_“Nor I. You are extraordinary.” The words trembled hesitantly on his lips before spilling forth. “I love you.”_

Hawke blinked back the tears that stung her eyes, chiding herself for her foolish fantasies. Fenris knew so little of love, he would never have spoken so soon; nor would she have expected such a declaration, not then. Now, she longed to hear those words; now that she had learned to know her own heart as well as she had hoped to know his. But it was far too late. Whatever he felt for her now, it wasn’t what she wanted from him, and it never would be. He’d made that clear.

She rolled over in bed—the bed, the one where he had touched her, and brought her to a fulfillment she had rarely experienced before. Sometimes she thought she could still smell his scent, the musk of leather and the sharp tang of lyrium, ridiculous though that was. Looking up at the canopy, Hawke thought she should sell this bed, buy something with fewer memories. The curtain hanging loose, which she had taken down to help him hide from the light and her scrutiny, was a constant reminder. But she couldn’t bring herself to erase all the evidence of what they had done here together—doing so would make it feel even more as though she had imagined it.

The red band on his wrist was a reminder, too, but a taunting one. Some days she wanted to rip it off him; some days it touched her deeply. But she could never ignore it.

Taking a deep breath to banish the foolish fantasy, she tried to think of the Arishok; of Knight-Commander Meredith; of Merrill’s quest to repair her mirror. Anything to draw her attention elsewhere. Every line of thought led her back to Fenris.

Eyes burning, she stared at the canopy until dawn broke, the light shining through the windows, and she could get up and pretend to be over him again. Maybe if she pretended long enough, it would be true.


	9. Champion Party

Contrary to his usual habits of indolence, Varric was bustling around the Hanged Man like a nug with its head cut off. But it wasn’t every day Hawke was allowed out of her house for the first time after defeating a Qunari Arishok in single combat, and he was throwing her the biggest “Champion Party” Kirkwall had ever seen. That it was most likely the only Champion Party Kirkwall had ever seen didn’t bother Varric in the least—he was happy to be creating the legends that other people would later try to top. If they could.

Corff had laid in bottles of actual honest-to-the-Maker champagne for the celebration, and had promised to see that Hawke’s glass was kept filled. First Enchanter Orsino had been watcing over Hawke’s recovery personally since her nearly fatal duel with the Arishok, and had pronounced her fit to be out and about only a couple of days ago. She hadn’t done anything with the permission so far; she’d been holed up in that dark, lonely house just like her ex-lover, the broody elf. It wasn’t something Varric liked to see in her, so he was coaxing her out with a rousing celebration.

Everyone was arriving, milling around the room, lifting their glasses to one another, getting the party started. That had been Varric’s idea, so that Hawke could walk into the party when it was in full swing, rather than having to get it started herself.

And it worked perfectly. She walked in the door and everyone turned and raised their glasses and cheered for her. Her familiar self-deprecating wry smile greeted the hubbub, but it faded as she searched the crowd, and Varric wanted to charge up to Hightown and kick the ass of that broody bastard forthwith. He had worked his tail off for this party—he’d cajoled Blondie out of Darktown and practically dragged the Choirboy out of the Chantry. He’d had to hold up the next four issues of _Hard in Hightown_ to convince Aveline and the Big Guy to take the night off, and he had carefully selected all the people Hawke liked best from Kirkwall other than her team—Tomwise, and Worthy the dwarf runesmith, and Lady Elegant the potion maker. Everyone short of Sunshine, immured in the Gallows, and Rivaini, Maker knew where, was here, and Hawke could only see that the elf hadn’t made it.

She covered the disappointment almost as soon as it surfaced, and accepted the glass of champagne Norah served her, making her way toward Varric, and he hid his resentment of her continued obsession with the elf under his usual charming smile. “Hawke!”

“Varric, this is … too much.” She raised her glass in response to a toast from Daisy, whose reddened cheeks indicated she’d be passing out soon. “You’ve outdone yourself.”

“Glad you like it.”

“It’s definitely worth leaving the house for, and I wasn’t sure anything could be.”

“See? You were getting too comfortable up there; I had to get you out somehow. What would we all do without you?”

“Maybe you’d occasionally get out of the Hanged Man.” She grinned at him, and he was glad to see the humor back in her face, even if there were still shadows under her eyes and hollows in her cheeks. 

“Perish the thought,” he said, giving Hawke an answering grin, but she didn’t see it. The door had opened, and immediately her head snapped up. Varric didn’t need to look to see for himself who it was—the sudden color that flooded her face told him all he needed to know.

He had to give Broody credit—if Varric had been the one to convince Hawke to attempt suicide-by-Qunari on behalf of a city that had taken from her everything she cared about, he wouldn’t have dared show his face at a party in her honor. But the elf had plenty of gall, if not any sense of timing or decency.

To the best of Varric’s knowledge, the elf had not been to visit Hawke once since the duel; he had fled the Viscount’s Keep while she still lay bleeding on the floor, and hadn’t had the nerve to face her since. Varric could see in her face the precise moment she remembered that; her back and shoulders stiffened and straightened, and she lifted her chin to a proud angle that only Hawke could carry off without looking snooty.

He wasn’t sure which tugged at his heartstrings more—the soft, longing look she’d worn at her first sight of the elf, or the hardness in her blue eyes as he came closer. Both indicated that she’d never recovered from the night she and the elf had spent together. Varric itched to know the details of that story, but there was little chance he ever would. It was clear that whatever had happened, it cut too deep in both parties to be discussed.

The elf had come face-to-face with her now. “Hawke.”

“Fenris.” She had command of her voice as well as her face, and if Varric hadn’t known as sure as he knew his own name that she was still in love with the broody bastard, he’d have thought she didn’t care a whit. “I’m glad you could make it.”

“Yes. I—am glad to see you looking so … so well.” It was rare that the elf stumbled over his tongue this much, and Varric took a savage delight in the other man’s discomfort.

“I hope your last few weeks have been uneventful.” Hawke was really pouring on the deep freeze, and apparently it was too much for her to sustain, because she lifted her head in response to nothing that Varric could see, and lied through her teeth to the elf. “Aveline appears to be looking for me. If you’ll excuse me.” And she skirted lightly around Broody in Aveline’s direction.

The elf’s green eyes and lyrium-marked face held so much naked pain that Varric couldn’t stay angry at him. Whatever he had done, whatever reasons he’d had, it was clear that he was paying a high price for it.

“Is she truly well?” he asked Varric anxiously. “She is not just pretending to be recovered to avoid giving anyone trouble?”

Varric shook his head. “Physically she’s fine. Emotionally …” He shrugged. “Hence the party.”

“I see.” Varric almost—almost—felt like a voyeur, glimpsing the longing in the elf’s eyes. “She saved the city … but at great cost to herself. Again.”

“Exactly.” It was on the tip of Varric’s tongue to ask why the elf had suggested the single combat, why he had risked Hawke’s life that way, but he supposed events explained that well enough. Defeating the Arishok had allowed the Qunari to leave, and only Hawke could do that. “I think she’s tired of losing what’s important to her in the name of protecting Kirkwall. Can’t blame her for that.”

“No. No, we cannot.” The elf turned to look in Hawke’s direction. “Perhaps we owe it to her to … make certain what is important to us.”

“And what is that?”

The elf looked down at him for the first time, tearing his eyes off Hawke. “Possibly … freedom. I am not entirely sure.”

“Why don’t you figure it out then?” Varric said, hoping it would be the nudge the elf needed to do something about the coldness between himself and Hawke. Proud though Varric was of his friend for covering what appeared to be a hopeless love, she needed the elf in ways that she would never admit to, in whatever form he appeared in her life. Keeping him at arm’s length was no good for any of them.

“Perhaps I shall. Yes.” The elf nodded with sudden decision. “Please tell Hawke I am sorry I could not stay for the rest of the party, but that I will be at her side the next time she has a task to perform.”

“Will do.” Varric watched the elf leave, casting a last lingering look in Hawke’s direction, and then made his way through the crowd to his friend’s side. She turned to look at him affectionately, and he began the task of rebuilding her spirits.


	10. The Day They Knew

It was a typical Tuesday—they had been walking along, minding their own business, and suddenly were surrounded by some rabid cult or another. Hawke had long ago given up caring who they were and what their purpose was, and had philosophically accepted that the random attacks kept her people on their toes and assisted Aveline and the guards in keeping the streets safe for less well-armored folk.

She ducked a wild swing, countering with a mighty blow of her own blade, curving in from the side and catching her opponent firmly on the arm. He howled, dropping his sword, and looked up at her just in time to take a crossbow bolt to the eye.

“Good timing!” Hawke called to Varric. She didn’t hear his reply, busy with the next foe. To her left, she saw a flash of lightning from Anders, and to her right the subtler but to her eye more noticeable gleam of Fenris’s markings. He leaped in the air, his hair flying back from his face, and brought his sword down on the head of his opponent.

His muscular arms were gleaming with sweat and lyrium, and he had that look on his face, part joy in the fight and part indomitable determination, that made Hawke go weak in the knees. There was no question that fighting and making love had certain things in common, and all too frequently in the privacy of her fantasies she saw that look directed at her.

“Stop it,” she hissed to herself fiercely, dragging her thoughts back to the battle at hand—and just in time, too, as one of the cultists, if that’s who they were, appeared as if from nowhere in front of her, daggers up. Hawke gave him an elbow to the unprotected mouth, and followed it up with a sweep of her great blade, which finished him off nicely.

As he fell she looked around to see that they had won the field. A guard came out of the corner, and Hawke motioned to the bodies. The guard nodded crisply. She had to hand it to Aveline—the guards weren’t getting any better about joining in these fights, but they were improving a great deal when it came to taking charge of the clean-up.

She turned to her team. Anders was straightening his pauldrons, Varric crooning to Bianca, and Fenris was looking at her, his green eyes dark and fierce, his chest heaving with the exertion of the fight. He was so damned sexy Hawke had to practically physically restrain herself from crossing the space between them and flinging herself into his arms. It was all wrong, she said to herself—she wasn’t attracted to elves, and he didn’t like her sister, and he lived in a dilapidated mansion drinking wine all day when he wasn’t with her, and she had to take care of Bethany and get her mother out of Gamlen’s. There was no time for this. None.

But when he looked at her none of that mattered—she saw only Fenris, who listened to her talk, who was always at her back whether he agreed with her or not, whose voice echoed in her ears when she went to sleep at night.

And in that moment, a simple meeting of gazes at the end of an ordinary fight, Evelyn knew she couldn’t fight it any longer—finally, she had found something in Kirkwall that she wanted, just for herself … and she couldn’t have it, any more than Bethany could have a life free of fear of the Templars, or her mother could have her old life back.  
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Hawke was pacing back and forth between bundles, muttering to herself, occasionally getting to her knees and rummaging through one. She had asked Fenris if she could use his mansion as a staging area while she packed supplies for the Deep Roads expedition—she said her mother cried when she tried to prepare things at Gamlen’s, and no one else really had the space for everyone’s things.

He had known it was dangerous to allow her to do so—having her there every day, dropping by unexpectedly to make certain she had remembered certain items; watching her, so focused, as she made the preparations. It all brought her into constant proximity with him, even more so than usual, and in a setting of disturbing privacy. Alone with her, Fenris sometimes found his tongue disastrously unguarded. Those frank blue eyes of hers fastened on him and he forgot much of his natural and learned reticence. Not to mention that the sight of her occasionally caused his body to react in ways he would rather she not notice. Hawke was a beautiful woman, undeniably so.

She was also utterly and completely out of his reach. Any woman would be—he was an escaped slave, trailing danger behind him wherever he went. As certainly as he sat here, Danarius would come for him, and when he did so, whoever came to Fenris's aid would be put in harm's way. If he considered it like that, it was irresponsible of him to remain in Kirkwall at all. His very presence put Hawke in danger.

He had considered it, many times. But then he would walk into the Hanged Man and her face would light with pleasure at the sight of him; or their eyes would meet over Varric's head in shared amusement or exasperation at something the dwarf had said; or he would be walking behind her and find himself imagining what it would be like to take her in his arms. Foolish and impossible as those imaginings were, Fenris found himself utterly incapable of giving them up, or of removing himself from the temptation she represented.

If he asked Hawke, she would tell him to stop running; had done so, in fact, on more than one occasion. Fenris was grateful for her stalwart support, even if he didn't understand why she offered it to him. So for his part, he did his best to watch and to be for Hawke what she needed—a strong arm to fight next to, a dissenting voice offering her alternate opinions, an ear when life at her uncle's, with her helpless sister and demanding mother, became too much for her. Did it matter what it cost his heart to draw closer and closer to her with no hope of her returning his growing feelings? She deserved the best from him—from all of them—and he would give it to her.

Because the alternative, to leave her, would be to tear his own heart from his chest—he might as well give it to Danarius, in that case.


End file.
